Carol’s Column

What a life ... it shouldn't happen to anyone

THEY all warned me it wouldn't work. I should have listened. But then, does one ever?

"He's impossible," said my friend Betty. "I don't know how you can live with him."

Dolores, known for her immeasurable tact and charm, was more outspoken: "I must be frank," she said, "you know I always call a hamburger a mince ball. He's the pits. Why do you stand him, Carol?

"He makes your life a misery. He's a despot, he makes Pik Botha look good-natured in comparison."

"Oh, he's not so bad," I'd replied, "I mean, underneath that gruff exterior, there's charm and charisma waiting to surface."

But in my heart, liver and kidneys, I know she was right.

He was making my life impossible. If his meals were not on time, there was an international incident and he became downright aggressive.

And all of a sudden, he'd become fussy about food.

Take chicken, it had to be de-boned, white and tenderly cooked. He would only eat filleted fish that had been gently grilled in butter sauce.

No one was allowed to say a word while watching television and he'd usurped the chair in which I'd reclined for 16 years.

His table manners were abominable and he only drank tea with warm milk.

And so it continued.

But worst of all was his total disregard for my feelings. He was always up at the crack of dawn — noisily — oblivious of the fact that I hated waking before sunrise.

He hogged the bed and was downright unpleasant when I tried to squeeze into a comfortable corner and accidentally nudged him awake.

Indeed, my life had become a misery, catering for his every need.

In my darker moments, I even contemplated murder.

And then, last Monday evening he fell ill.

Had someone tried to poison him or had he caught a fearful disease?

He writhed and whimpered with pain.

I rushed him off to the emergency hospital where he was seen immediately.

The nurse took one look at my dishevelled, distraught appearance and led me gently to a chair.

"Don't worry," she said. "Doctor's a brilliant surgeon, we'll save him."

She smiled and disappeared behind a door.

In the distance I heard murmuring.

The waiting room, like many, was austere, the neon lights harsh, the magazines dog-eared and ancient.

I felt guilty. So often had I imagined life without him and now it was possible I'd lose him.

I didn't want him to die.

It seemed as if I sat for hours but it could only have been 10 minutes before the door opened.

I couldn't restrain myself. "Will he live?" I cried as Dr K entered the room.

He looked startled. My heart dropped to liver level.

He put his arm around me.

"Come," he said solicitously, "come."

I entered the operating theatre.

There, lying peacefully asleep on the table lay Macaroni surrounded by six diminutive bundles of fluff.

"Congratulations," the vet said, "you're the proud grandmother of six little kittens."

■